Indu never apologized. She didn't believe in sorry — to her, it sounded weak, like giving someone permission to win. That night, when she finally ended things with Meera, she didn't shout. Her voice was calm, steady, almost cold. Every word was chosen carefully, designed to sting. Meera stood there silent, eyes tired, holding back tears that Indu pretended not to notice.
When it was over, Indu felt lighter. There was no guilt, only a strange sense of peace — the kind that comes after burning something down. She told herself she had done the right thing, that Meera would be happier without her, that it was all for the best. But deep down, she knew she didn't do it for Meera. She did it because she couldn't stand being seen for who she really was.
Indu had always needed control — over people, over feelings, over every word said to her. She liked watching others bend to her moods, watching them try to fix what she kept breaking. And when they finally gave up, she called them weak.
Meera was the last one who tried. She had stayed through Indu's tempers, her cold silences, her sharp comments disguised as honesty. But even the kindest hearts have limits. When Meera finally stopped defending herself, Indu saw it as betrayal. That was all she needed to end it — to turn love into hate and friendship into nothing.
That night, she walked away, convincing herself it was strength. She didn't look back. Indu never did. Because in her world, letting go wasn't loss — it was power. And she always chose power, even when it left her completely alone.